


a sweet unrest

by Ellipsical



Series: Oh! how I love [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Felching, M/M, Modern AU, Rimming, Sussex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-10
Updated: 2016-12-10
Packaged: 2018-09-07 16:10:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8807440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellipsical/pseuds/Ellipsical
Summary: This is a gift for my sweet friend girlwhowearsglasses. In short, Sherlock goes to John's rugby match and just has to do dirty things to him in those tight little rugby shorts when they get home. Set in Sussex, because that's where my heart's been lately.Title take from Keats' poem,   "Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art"  "...Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,And so live ever--or else swoon to death."





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [girlwhowearsglasses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlwhowearsglasses/gifts).



“You were fantastic.”

“Mmm.”

“Brilliant.”

Another satisfied hum. Lazy and low and rumbling as his fingers threaded themselves into my hair.

John Watson has the most delectable mouth for kissing that I have ever encountered. Not that I have had the occasion to study the matter scientifically, per say, and he is only one of three after all, but I just know it to be true. It is a fact as irrefutable as gravity.

I murmured against it, “You were magnificent,” to which he chuckled and tugged on my hair, bringing me closer so that he could slip his clever silky tongue between my lips.

We were pressed up against our front door. Kissing, slow and sweet. Our hands running along well worn routes. Cheeks and clavicles, shoulders and throats, waists and hips. John’s key had stuck in the lock, as it was wont to do, and because I am an impatient man who does not believe in waiting for dessert, I had promptly pushed him up against it and snogged him ruthlessly quick before he could do anything about it.

The Sussex air was piquant with lavender and freshly cut grass around us. The work of both our afternoons' labor. John with the hand mower and I with the trowel. It wraps itself around us, warm and fragrant. Nothing to accompany the soft sounds of our mouths brushing against each other but the drone of the crepuscular insects in our garden and the buzz of the porch light. The stars winking in the summer sky above us, Scorpio and Hercules, Arcturus and the Corona Borealis, our home waiting to welcome us at John’s back.

“I’ve never seen such a divine display of masculinity before in my life. In fact I found myself quite dazzled.”

“Oh, please, shut up already, won’t you?”

I couldn’t see his face in the dark, but I knew that he was growing exasperated with what he thought was my teasing, but what was actually my ardent adoration.

That wouldn’t do.

That wouldn’t do, at all.

“And these.” I slid my right hand down the outside of his hip to finger the hem of his skin tight rugby shorts, the canvas brusque against my fingertips. The rough material was stretched taut over John’s hard, muscular thighs. They cupped his arse just so. Leaving very little to the imagination, of which I happen to possess a very vivid one. “God, John, they’re so… _tiny_.”

“Yes, I thought those might get your attention you great bloody git. I had to beg you for months to come and now I suppose you’ll be at all my matches, hmm?”

“John, I had no idea. It was torture. I was hard for hours.” A rough drag of my palm up and down the rigid line of John’s cock made John moan, rocking up on his toes, pressing into my hand. He tugged, hard, on my hair, sending a shower of sparks skating down my spine. “Watching you ruck and grunt and run and scrum and I couldn’t touch you at all. I wanted to take you down into the mud, right there on the pitch, after you scored that try, just strip you naked and push right inside. Fuck you right there for everyone to see.”

I licked down the salty column of John’s throat, tasting the savor of sweat and the tang of earth, gritty against my tongue.

“Christ, Sherlock, I would have joined a rugby league years ago if I’d known it would have this effect on you.”

I cupped his hips and pulled him flush against me, delving my tongue deep inside his mouth, in response.

We were both breathless when I pulled away a few minutes later.

“I need you,” I whispered, the velvet summer night lapping at us like sun warmed, shallow seawater. “I need you right now. In our bed.”

“Sherlock, I’m filthy. I need a bath first.”

“I like you filthy.” The words licked into John’s right ear, wet and close. John can’t resist when I do that. It drives him mad. Predictably, his breath hitched and his fingers clenched against my scalp. Sliding my hands around his hips I took two handfuls of his arse and squeezed.

“ _Sherlock_.”

I merely growled, bending my knees and rocking my hips forward, rubbing us against each other, perfectly aligned, letting friction do the rest of the convincing.

He gasped and pulled my bottom lip between his teeth. Sucking on it a bit before pulling away and trying one last time at diplomacy. “Just let me rinse off, I—“

Heading things off at the pass, I merely did the most expedient thing which was to pick him up and bend him over my shoulder. I had done the math in my head: any rage he felt stemming from being manhandled thus would be immediately offset once I got him into our bed and licked every dirty, salty inch of him clean.

John’s key was still stuck in the lock so I carried him around the side of the cottage to the kitchen door which looks out on our small brick patio. I sidestepped our table and chairs where we were in the habit of taking breakfast when the weather was mild. My key slid home and we were inside and turning down the hall before John could finish his muttered oaths of revenge: “I am going to bloody well murder you, Sherlock Holmes, if you do not set me down this instant. I am going to take my time about it too. I’ve still got my army kit you know. I think there’s an amputation saw in there somewhere. I swear to God! I am fifty years old, and oh, look! What a fucking surprise. You didn’t finish the washing up like you promised. The brilliant Sherlock Holmes can’t be bollocks’d to scrub out the tea cups, no—“

I tossed him down upon our mattress without warning and his tirade ended in a yelp of surprise. I bent and snapped on the lamp.

God.

Look at him.

The man was positively edible. Glaring up at me in obvious frustration at my methods, but the corners of his mouth twitching. Torn between the need to harangue me further no doubt and the impulse to relent and let me have my way with him. I am often reminded how lucky I am to have found him, a man who forgives me my faults and loves me in spite of them. If anyone asks I tell them he is perfect. And never more so than when he is fresh off an evening of vigorous exercise apparently, because I found that I simply could not look away from him. Getting dirt all over our sheets. Finally, he laughed, shaking his head at me, _forgiving_ me, and it spread through my chest, warm and intoxicating as whiskey. I looked and looked. His silver blonde hair darkened to bronze by sweat. Sticking up in adorable tufts all over from where my fingers had been mussing it. Cheeks flushed from being hung upside down, blue eyes shading towards black. Dark with lust and the lingering endorphins in his system. Those, at least, were working in my favor. A streak of mud on his jaw. More caked around his kneecaps. Grass stains on his left shin. His blue and white striped shirt rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong forearms, which he leaned back on, regarding me with a predatory look. And, Christ, those absolutely wee black shorts, pushed up to bunch at the seam of his thighs and doing an absolutely piss poor job of containing the indecent bulge of John’s thick cock.

We had bought this house and moved to Sussex for the summer for my health following a particularly trying case. I wasn't yet ready to concede retirement, but on the advice of Mycroft's doctors and the doctor currently sharing my bed I had relented to taking a break. It seemed that the sea air and sunshine had had just as rejuvenating an effect on John as it had had on me. He looked all of sixteen again, toasted brown by a summer spent romping about on the pitch with his new sevens team, The Pevensey Petrels, which was a horrible name for a sports club, but there you have it. They did not ask _me_. His body was beautifully toned and muscled as a result. The mere sight of him made my heart clamor about inside my chest.

“Well?” John asked, folding his arms behind his head and relaxing back against the mattress. Smiling up at me, boyish, cheeky, eyes shining. “What do you want to do to me now that you’ve got me here?”

I didn’t know what I wanted until right then. Kneeling down, I quickly removed his trainers and socks. Rubbing my hands up the back of his calves, relishing the staticky crackle of his hair against my palms, I looked up at him. Gilded honey gold in the light from the lamp. Blue eyes like a storm gathering over the ocean.

John sat up and bent forward.

His mouth tasted of everything I cannot do without in this world.

He tasted of tea and home and freshly laundered sheets and our bedroom windows left open on a night when it rained, us snuggled under the covers. A fire in the grate and my violin in my hand, his eyes on me, proud and fond. It tasted of the dinner we had shared before his match; roast chicken and potatoes. It tasted of crisp morning walks along the seashore and fresh currant jam from the local farmer’s market slathered on toast. It tasted of foggy London nights and adrenaline and danger. I would never plumb the depths of what John Watson was to me. He was, quite simply, everything good and right with the world.

“Tell me what you want.” His thumbs on my cheekbones, tracing their sharp edges.

“I want you to turn over,” I said, my voice deeper and huskier than usual. Rough with longing. I slipped my hands beneath his shirt to rest them on the bare skin of his hips. Making the split second decision to dispense with preliminaries in favor of getting my hands on the object of my evening of torment, I added, “I want you on your hands and knees.”

John’s eyes flicked back and forth between mine and his eyebrows rose, creasing his forehead. He licked the thin line of his pink pink lips and all my blood rushed up and roared in my ears. My heart pounding hard. All of me pounding hard for him.

 _For him_.

He nodded once and I kissed him softly, before helping him off with his shirt. We would be keeping the shorts on for the time being and when I told him so he called me a dirty bastard.

He has no idea.

I spent no few minutes exploring his firm broad chest. Trailing my fingers through the springy golden hair on his pectorals and rubbing the flat of my tongue over and around his nipples. Over and around, over and around until he was panting my name, his hips bucking up beneath me, searching for something to rub against. At last I took pity on him. My hands framed his waist, thumbs on the dip and roll of his soft furry belly as I urged him over and watched, my cock hard and leaking in my trousers, as he crawled up the bed to obey my wish.

“Wrap your hands around the headboard, please.”

I watched as John shivered, his eyes slipping briefly shut at the timbre of dark need in my voice, before he complied.

I quickly undressed and retrieved the lube from our bedside table before climbing up behind him. John watched me, faced tucked down underneath his left arm, eyes in shadow.

“You’ve been taunting me with this thing all evening,” I murmured, smoothing my hands over the twin globes of John’s round arse. He made a plaintive noise and pushed back into my hands, arse canted up, on offer.

I ran my thumbs lightly up the deep cleft that clove the halves in two. Tracing.

“I’m going to take your arse apart, John. With my tongue. With my hands. With my cock.”

I tucked my fingers into the waist band of his shorts and tugged them down and off. Here, in the moment, I found that I couldn’t wait any longer to have him naked before me.

John’s scent was released into the air. Hovering all around me, sweat and musk and the sharp raw scent of grass and dirt. I breathed it in greedily as I pressed myself against him, slotting my cock between his arse cheeks, my fingers dug into his hips. Heat was pouring off of him, the bedroom stifled and overly warm from a day spent baking in the sun. A fine sheen of perspiration shone in the small of his back and I bent to taste it.

“Oh, fuck.” John’s shoulders rounding up by his ears. Salt on my tongue.

I leaned forward and draped myself over him, unable to keep from rolling my hips. John moaned and bowed his back, rubbing up against me, slippery and hot. My breath caught in my chest at the sensation and my mind went utterly blank. I breathed hard against his shoulder blades, my nose pressed to the slick seam of his spine. My blood chasing recklessly fast through my veins.

“Sherlock.” John turned his head and dipped his shoulder, his eyes closed, his mouth seeking mine.

I pushed forward to meet him, dislodging my cock from it’s resting place to glide into the curve of his lower back.

The kiss was just barely there. A wet glide of tongues. A graze of lips.

It sent tiny tremors ricocheting down my spine.

“Do you want that?” I asked, snaking one arm underneath him, a band across his stomach, holding him close. “Do you want me to take your arse apart, John?”

“Yes.” He nodded, frantic, and I leaned in. Ran the tip of my tongue along his bottom lip. Licked it until it was shiny and plump.

“Hold on,” I said, guiding his hands back to the bed posts before I drew away.

John’s sides were shaking slightly beneath my touch as I settled between his legs.

Kneeling behind him, I shoved a pillow beneath him and tugged his hips down until he was laid out across it. I lay down and blew my breath out against him. Watched as the goosebumps broke and ran, stippling his skin and raising his hair on end. His knees shifted underneath him and he swayed backwards, searching.

I parted him.

Ran my thumbs, dry, over his dark puckered hole. John hissed and bucked forward into the pillow.

And then back.

I did it again and he squirmed, making small involuntary noises in his throat.

I loved him like this.

On the brink of losing his self control.

It took some coaxing, but once I brought him there it was a beautiful thing to witness.

I leaned in and ran my nose over the smooth skin of his perineum down to nuzzle against the back of his full, heavy sack. Musk stung the back of my throat as I breathed him in.

I licked out.

He shuddered in my hands and I felt the exact moment when his control snapped.

He rested his forehead against the mattress, his hands wrapped tight around the bedspokes.

“Do it,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“Do what?” I asked.

He laughed, a sharp burst of air exhaled against the inside of his arm, and then said, muffled, into his skin, “You know what.”

“I need you to say it, John. Tell me what you want.”

And because he had reached that place where his body had taken over, he was able to do it, whereas only moments before he would have been bound by his embarrassment at wanting it.

“Your tongue.”

“Yes?”

“Lick me, Sherlock. I want you to lick me. Jesus. Please.”

And because I will give John Watson anything that he asks of me, I did just that.

I licked right over his tight little hole. A long wet stripe, following the ridge of his perineum and up between his cheeks.

I spread him wide and did it again. Slicking him up. Getting him sopping wet. I spit against him, thick, and then I licked him all over. Spreading it all over him until he gleamed. I kissed him, teasing him with my lips, before I opened my mouth over his fluttering hole and sucked slow and hard. Flickering the tip of my tongue around his rim and then rubbing the flat of it against him. I did it over and over until I could tell from the quality of sounds he was making that he was lost.

He was pushing back onto my tongue, begging for it.

“Oh, Sherlock. Fuck me.”

And he didn’t mean with my cock.

“Oh, fuck me, please.”

I gripped him hard, my fingers leaving red marks on the pale flesh of his arse, holding him open, and then,

slowly,

slowly,

I slid my tongue inside him.

His reaction was visceral. He jerked and moaned and then rocked back onto his knees, taking my tongue deeper until my teeth were bared against his skin. He rolled his hips forward until just the tip of my tongue was inside him and then he pressed back, fucking himself on it.

“Put your fingers in me. Fuck, Sherlock, I need your cock. I need it now.”

Without pulling my mouth away from him I flailed out a hand in the general direction of where I had laid the lube beside us on the bed until I closed my hand around it. I had to retreat for a moment to get my fingers wet and John whined and rutted at the air. I watched as his cock slapped against his belly, heavy and thick and flushed dark red.

I gave him two to start and then tucked my face once more between his cheeks.

Inside, the walls of his body clamped down tight around my fingers, his hole contracting against my tongue. Alternately clenching and relaxing until I felt John bear down and then I slid inside with ease, his passage opening up for me, smooth and hot.

“I’m ready,” he panted. His hips thrusting back to screw me ever deeper. “I’m ready. Put your big giant dick in me. Do it, Sherlock. Oh, God.”

Every sound he had made had been resonating inside my own body. An electric pulse of light shooting down my chest to throb in my cock each time he moaned. Every time his hands gripped the headboard and made them groan. Every time he said my name. I was hard and I wanted him. Badly.

So when he reached back and fisted his hand in my curls I pulled off.

Pulled out.

And took up the bottle of lube once more.

John sat up as I slicked myself up, his weight resting on my thighs, and twisted around to kiss me. My fingers were still sticky from the lube and I left tacky patches on his chest as he licked into my mouth, his hand tangling in my curls. He trembled slightly, his muscles quivering from exertion. He was on the edge of exhaustion. A two hour rugby match followed by sex. The man was reaching his limit, but he would never admit it. I steadied myself beneath him and he sunk, sunk down my shaft, slowly, slowly, until I was fully seated. I gasped and pulled him tighter against me. His mouth open and panting into my own. His hand pulling my hair, his eyelashes tickling my cheek.

“I’m not going to last,” I admitted, already feeling my orgasm gathering at the tops of my thighs, hot and bright. Urgent.

“Then don’t,” he murmured, kissing me. Moving himself up and down. So tight around me. My perfect John. One of my arms hugged him tight around his waist, one around his chest, holding him fast, holding him close. His voice ground out, rough and grating, “Come in me. I want to feel you. I want you to fill me up.”

He sank down in one long slow drag and I was there, coming inside him. Filling him up. It brimmed and tracked down the inside of his thighs. I cried out, shaking.

Shaken.

Shook up.

Shaking.

My body clutching him from within. My hands clutching him without.

I wanted to melt and merge with him.

And yet…

Some small part of my brain that was still functioning knew that John hadn’t come.

Some small part of my brain knew that that was unacceptable.

I turned him over and helped ease him down onto his back. The pillow beneath his arse, lifting him up for me.

He was still shivering. Plucked. Taut and tense.

His cock dripping against his belly.

I lifted his legs and watched as my come slipped out of his hole.

Transfixed, I reached down and drew my fingers through it.

Ringed him. The pad of my index finger circling against his smooth rim.

He bowed against the mattress.

Encouraged, I swept some up and painted it onto his erection.

Then, on impulse, and because I am a curious creature by nature, I leaned forward and licked it off.

Oh.

Bitter salt.

Bitter lube.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

I did it again.

Lapped at John’s leaking slit for good measure. Comparing.

I was biased of course, but I thought he tasted much better.

John was writhing below me.

Shining with sweat.

Blushing from his chest to his cheeks.

His hands holding the bedspokes so tightly above his head that I was afraid they might snap under the strain.

Muttering curses under his breath. “You’re a filthy, dirty bugger and I love you for it. Oh, do it again. Lick your come off my cock. Clean me up…”

He trailed off into a deep throated moan as I spread his knees and buried my face once more between his cheeks.

Licking in hard broad strokes as my come pushed, no, _gushed_ , it’s way out of him. Smearing all over my cheeks and chin. I fucked my tongue inside him and felt him clench down, all of him tensing, before he arched up off the bed and came with a shout. His cock jerking, untouched, against his stomach as thick creamy come throbbed out of his red slit sliding down his hard length to pool in the dark golden hair at the base.

I tried to lick that up too, but John giggled, high pitched and slightly hysterical, and grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled me up.

“I’m not sure I should kiss you with that mouth,” he said, his eyes stilled closed, as I lay down beside him, my face nudging into the curve of his neck. I smiled into his warm skin.

“Did you like it?” I asked, my hand resting on his stomach, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath.

“You know bloody well that I did. Christ, I can’t remember the last time you made me come that hard.”

He turned to face me, tucking his chin over the top of my head and hooking his leg over my hip, his arm winding around my ribs.

I kissed his scar.

Kissed the spine of his clavicle.

Kissed his heart that beat beneath his jaw.

“We should really change the sheets,” he said, his words dreamy and drifting.

But by then it was too late.

  
*********

  
I woke in the same position that I had slept.

My head upon John’s breast.

I kissed his sleepy pink lips until he woke.

White gold lashes framing the deep blue pools of his eyes.

“Morning,” he whispered, voice hoary with disuse.

“Morning,” I whispered back, our noses rubbing against one another.

It is an irrefutable fact that John Watson has the most delectable mouth for kissing. It is a law as essential to my survival as gravity.

And as my body stirred against him, his lips, his touch waking me up, I thanked whatever mad thing that was responsible for our universe, that he was mine.


End file.
